


kippur

by staticbees



Category: Tribe Twelve
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Gen, Judaism, also @ adam rosner give us more jewish noah content im begging y, this is mostly me projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 19:16:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticbees/pseuds/staticbees
Summary: A short exploration of how Judaism has intertwined with Noah Maxwell's life over the years.





	kippur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [octopodian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopodian/gifts).



Noah Maxwell was never particularly religious. 

 

Sure, he was raised Jewish – he went to Sunday School at his local Reform temple until his Bar Mitzvah at age 13 – but his family really only celebrated a few holidays, and he’d celebrated Christmas with the Ashers on more than one occasion, so he was used to multicultural households. He didn’t consider himself a believer, really, more agnostic than anything, but Judaism was part of his culture, and his family history had been deeply affected by antisemitism.

 

When he got older, the frequency with which he went to synagogue services slowly tapered off, falling to once or twice a year, mostly on high holidays, even though he still avoided pork, a habit from his childhood. His congregation was nice, of course, but considering where in Florida he lived, it was mostly just elderly retirees, a lot of whom treated him as one of their grandchildren. He decided after a point to just smile and bear it; after all, he wasn’t going to say no to free hamantaschen on Purim, even if there wasn’t much in the way of festivities. 

 

The first service he went to directly following Milo’s death was the most painful he’d been to since his grandmother had died. His grief was raw and scraping, an open wound, his last memory of Milo still fresh in his mind, and his chest had tightened before the Mourner’s Kaddish as the rabbi asked those in their first year of mourning to stand up and speak the name of the dead, as his thoughts drifted towards the last few days he’d spent with his cousin. How Milo had avoided speaking to Noah about whatever was troubling him, instead preferring to dodge the subject whenever Noah brought it up. How his voice would go quiet when Noah asked him how his home life had been. How Noah hadn’t pressed, hadn’t called, had just sat there, day after day, waiting for the phone to ring, until the day he had learned it never would again. There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke Milo’s name. 

 

After the services ended for the afternoon, an older lady, maybe in her 70s or 80s, with thin grey hair pulled back into a bun and crinkled brown eyes, came up to him, and said she was sorry about his cousin, that she had only met him once but that he had been a good soul, and she had been sad to hear of his passing. The softness in her voice told him she had seen his poorly concealed tears, and he gave her a tight, grateful smile. 

 

That was the last service he went to for a long, long time. 

 

Despite its absence, his mind stayed with the synagogue. Everything reminded him of what he was, of his heritage, from the origin of Sebastian’s journal to the cheery Christmas decoration on HABIT’s letter.  _ He knows I’m Jewish. He’s  _ mocking  _ me. _

 

He started to lose track of the days, after a while, insomnia and anxiety filling his mind. The holidays skipped around from year to year, each time around a different day, and he couldn’t keep track, couldn’t remember which was which. Eventually, he was barely celebrating Hannukah, just a bottle of whiskey and a bunch of cheap birthday candles that he lit with a match, a half mumbled prayer from cracked lips.

 

Once the Collective told him the day he’d be taken, everything suddenly felt less… meaningful. As if there was no point in pursuing his heritage, because pretty soon he’d be dead anyway, and what good would that do? Prayers weren't going to do  _ shit _ . So he stopped.

 

On September 13th, 2013, if anyone saw the shadowy figure standing in the back of the synagogue, with too many eyes and a shifting, flickering form, humming along to prayers in a voice layered with buzzing static, no one said a word.

**Author's Note:**

> i really want to write more actual scenes for this... someday  
> also l'shanah tova everyone!! have a good and sweet new year. (i know noah won't.)


End file.
